Bifur was about to enter Dale that morning. His pony was loaded up with goods and he hoped that a successful day of trading would fill his pockets with good coin. But he was halfway across the bridge when the city burst into flames before him, a wave of heat almost knocking the dwarf right off his feet. His pony shrieked in terror and bolted down the valley, tearing the lead rope out of his hands as he shouted curses in Khuzdûl.

Bifur started running after his wayward animal and he’d just reached the other side of the bridge when an echoing roar froze him in his tracks. The noise was deafening, a solid wave of sound that struck him to the bone, and when he turned around to look, Bifur forgot about his pony. He forgot about everything but the dragon that was sweeping across the sky.

The dwarf watched the great red wyrm attack Dale without mercy, standing frozen as groups of men and women fled past him in terror. He watched Lord Girion attempt to stand against the dragon, shooting arrow after arrow from Dale’s highest tower top. But even a dwarvish wind-lance couldn’t pierce that monster’s hide and another burst of flame soon brought the tower down.

Bifur saw it all. He saw Dale and its people burn to ashes, bearing silent witness to ruin of their lives. He saw the dragon turn his eye toward Erebor, intent on claiming the Lonely Mountain and its riches for his own.

Bifur watched and wept and when a stray projectile slammed into his forehead, he fell unconscious where he stood.